Chapter 11
Angel
This bitch.
This bitch with her perfect fucking mouth, her perfect fucking lips.
Goddamn her and the way her throat opens to take me.
I tangle my fingers deeper in her hair, unconcerned about the gasps and gurgles.
I don’t give a shit about the choking and coughing.
I don’t pay attention to the tears leaking from her eyes or the redness in her cheeks.
She put herself in this fucking situation.
I know her game.
And fuck her twice for making me give in to it.
She wants this, the abuse, the power and control I have over her.
This is the shit she gets off on, and I played right into her damn hands.
It doesn’t matter that my balls are tightening, that the warmth of her mouth is somehow better than any I can ever remember feeling. She forced me into this. She’s getting exactly what she wants.
It makes me weak, malleable, easy to manipulate.
The urge to shove my cock so hard and so deep that she gasps her last breath on my cock is almost too strong to ignore, but I manage, barely.
I pull her off of me, my eyes pinned to the road in front of me, and when she doesn’t say El Salvador, I push her back down, loving the tightness of her throat.
Her fingers dig into my thighs as she struggles to breathe, and I know she’s trying to determine my rhythm, attempting to determine when I’ll shove down, when I’ll allow her a breath, so I keep changing it up as my eyes search for a place to park.
I don’t know that I’ve ever been angrier while getting sucked off in my life, but I’m just as repulsed at the situation as I am in desperate need to see the end of it.
My truck tires skid on gravel as I pull over to the side of the road.
The area looks secluded, but that doesn’t mean that it’s completely deserted. Someone could drive past at any time and bear witness to what I’m about to do, but I also can’t seem to stop myself.
After the shit she pulled in the diner earlier, I have no doubt she’d get some stranger involved in whatever this fucked-up side of her craves.
She could just as easily claim rape as come on my dick, and I hate that I can’t seem to agree with the reasonable side of my brain right now as I slam the truck in park and climb out.
I drag her behind me, unconcerned about the center console or what kind of bruises are going to be left behind on her body once I’m done with her.
Seeing the bruises on her throat in the diner fucking turned me on. I know how they got there, how hard she creamed on my fucking dick last night when I was marking her up.
The bitch is fucking crazy, and maybe a man that was completely in his right mind would take pause, try to get to the bottom of what she does, try to figure out why she seeks this kind of attention, but that would mean caring.
I don’t give a shit about Lauren Vos other than wanting to hurt her, punish her for what I endured because of her inaction.
She must think of me as lower than the scum of the earth, no better than the men who she was going after in El Salvador. It’s why it was so easy for her to step over me and leave me for dead. I have news for her, death was more desirable than what actually happened after she walked away.
“Don’t fucking cry now,” I hiss, locking her face in the grip of my hands as she struggles to stand.
I know pressing her to the front of my truck really isn’t going to camouflage what’s going on, but it puts my back to the barren field, providing me with the opportunity to see what’s coming down the road, hopefully before a driver can spot us.
“You better fucking stand,” I hiss in her ear as her knees grow weak. “I’ll fuck you into the dirt if I have to.”
I don’t ask her to remove her clothes this time. I know she won’t move fast enough for me. Instead, I reach around and force her zipper down, throwing the pull tab to the ground when it comes off in my hand.
“Please don’t,” she cries, her words coming out on sobs I ignore. “Angel, stop!”
There are only two words that mean a fucking thing to me right now, and even if she says those words, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.
Threads snap, the sound somehow louder than her cries as I move her clothes out of the way enough to give me access to her cunt.
With my hand still tight in her hair, I press down on her back with my free hand. It leaves her in an awkward position that I know can’t be comfortable, but I’ve never been concerned with her comfort. She’s a hole to fuck and nothing more.
“This what you wanted?” I snap, pulling my jeans down enough that my zipper isn’t resting uncomfortably under my sac.
She shakes her head as much as my grip will allow, her tears dripping from her eyes and flowing over the hood of the truck.
She screams in pain when my open palm meets the meat of her ass.
She tries to get away, but I’m a fucking monster right now.
I’d chase her through the fucking desert to get what I need.
I don’t care if anyone sees. I don’t care who could drive up and try to put a stop to this.
I’d likely slit anyone’s throat that attempted to pull me away from her.
I’m feral, wild, downright uncontrollable, and I hate her for it.
I don’t know if it’s a moan of pleasure or a whimper of pain when I slam inside of her. I’m not in any fucking state to even attempt to decipher the sounds she’s making. Not that I would bother at this point.
“You fucking whore,” I pant, hating that I’ve let myself be forced into this situation as my hips snap forward and back.
She struggles. Of course she does. I’m a lot to handle on a good day.
Any other time, I’d give the woman under me a second to acclimate, but this bitch doesn’t deserve it.
She earned this punishment, practically begged for it, and there’s no way I’m not going to give her exactly what she thought she wanted.
She can’t change her mind after uncaging the fucking beast.
“Your fault,” I remind her when she struggles enough that I have to re-tighten my grip on her hair.
If she doesn’t have a headache already, she will by the time I’m done.
“You make me hurt you,” I hiss. “Make me abuse you. Fuck, your cunt is so goddamned wet. Sick bitch.”
“Angel, no.” She whimpers her rejection, punctuated with a moan that threatens to make my balls seize in orgasm.
I fucking hate her for that, too.
“Stop!” She screams the word so loud, my hips falter, but then the rhythmic grip of her pussy tells me everything.
She’s punishing herself as much as I am. She didn’t want to come. That’s part of the way she abuses herself.
I fuck her harder, drawing out her release as long as I can before I’m on the edge of losing myself.
With a grunt, I pull free from her, cum spurting on her ass, painting the handprint I left there before entering her.
She’s literally making me insane, I realize as I release her and take a step back. My still-hard cock fights against me as I attempt to shove it back into my jeans.
I’m winded, my breath ragged as I look at her.
Her breaths are just as uneven, punctuated by sobs, but she doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t swipe at the tears staining her face as she tries to straighten her clothing.
I’m sick to my stomach as I walk around to climb back in the truck, breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. I hate myself for what I just did, and I hate her more than ever because I fucking loved it.
As she steps around to get back in with me, I hit the door lock.
I can’t bear another fucking second with this woman.
I’m going to take things too fucking far, finally get the revenge I spent a very long time thinking of and even longer getting out of my head where she’s concerned.
I blame her for so many things, and that power makes me murderous.
It’s clear I haven’t learned my lesson about Lauren Vos, but that’s on me.
She glares at me from outside the passenger window, her eyes insisting I let her climb back inside.
I turn my eyes back to the road, put the truck in drive, and leave her standing on the side of the fucking road.
I tell myself not to look back, to simply drive away and finally have this woman out of my life for good, but I can’t even manage that.
When I glance in my rearview mirror, I know I’m in serious fucking trouble.
Lauren is no longer glaring, and I realize just how fucking dangerous she is. The woman is smiling as if she anticipated my response and is—what, happy? Impressed?—that I left her there?
My truck carries me several miles down the road, but despite knowing how resourceful the woman is, I start to slow down.
First, my foot comes off the gas, allowing me to coast awhile before I press the brake.
I sit idle on the side of the road for long minutes before pounding my hand on the fucking dash.
I fucking hate her, despise everything that she is, but I also don’t want someone else to get to her.
I feel like I own her pain. I’m the only one who should be able to hurt her.
Revenge on her is mine, and it would be a complete fucking waste if someone got to her for their own sick fucking fantasies.
I turn the truck around, heading back in her direction, and the miles stretch on and on. Lauren is nowhere to be seen.
My brows scrunch as I make it back to the spot in town when she first ran her hand up my thigh.
I head back out of town, my truck inching along the road as my eyes scan the desert.
No cars passed me when I started heading back to her, so this doesn’t make any sense.
I guess it’s possible that someone picked her up and turned around to carry her back into town.
I should be relieved with the thought, but it sits heavy inside of me.
Cresting a small hill in the road, there she fucking is, her hair whipping around her, making her look like some fucking ghost that just appeared out of nowhere. As I slow down, the urge to drive right past her again hits me hard.
I don’t understand it any more than I understand the effort she’s been putting in to be near me. Maybe we’re more alike than I want to admit because she seems very keen on being in my path despite what I’ve done to her so far.
I slow to a stop beside her, but she doesn’t immediately reach for the passenger side door handle.
The woman glares at me from the side of the road, her eyes searching my face as if she can determine what will happen if she climbs inside.
I don’t know what she sees, but eventually she pulls open the door and climbs inside.
This time she doesn’t reach for the power button for the radio. She doesn’t taunt me with words or try to touch me.
She’s silent, something I should appreciate, but somehow her silence is unnerving.
I refuse to consider I took things too far.
Hell, I refuse to think at all.
The scent of sex fills the cab of the truck, but I don’t lower the window. I revel in the scent of me still on her skin, riding back into town, the entire time wondering if she even made an effort to get my cum off her skin.
I don’t ask and she doesn’t offer that information.